A/N: Ketones are measured by a urine test. When nothing is present in the urine, the strip stays tan. Trace, Low and Moderate ketones make the strip increasing dark shades of pink. Large ketones turn the strip purple.
He wakes up because his boxers are moist. He stops himself from doing any more damage.
Dammit! He can control his bladder.
He rolls to his knees, and reaches for a tan box in the second drawer by the bathroom sink. He tears off a white foil strip from the package.
On wobbly legs, he slowly moves until he is sitting on the toilet. He is not sure his legs will hold him. He feels very old.
Even in this state, his aim is near perfect, and he hits the strip with minimum splatter on his hands. It starts changing color before he can even examine it. The small box at the end moves from deep pink, to purple, to black. He has never seen this color before. It scares him.
He is suddenly aware of how much his site hurts. He rips away the adhesive. His skin is a bloody pump. The catheter, which is supposed to sit under his skin, is pressed awkwardly against the plastic base. The cannula isn't uncomfortable, so long as its inside him. Once it pulls out, though, it starts to do damage.
He wonders idyll how long he has been without insulin. He can't even begin to figure it out.
Slowly, he stands and cleans himself. He deposits his boxers in the trash, along with the plastic strip, and wraps the towel around his waist.
The trip back to his bed is deliberate and slow. He is breathing heavily when he reaches it.
He turns on his light, despite the fact that Nick will not wake up for another half an hour. From his bedside table, he fishes out a package of syringes and a pair of medicine vials. He uses the black case to test his blood sugar, but the meter only greets him. "HI" it blinks back proudly.
Dicking fuck. Its useless. He could be 600, 700, 1000 for all he knows. He selects an intermediate number. 15 units. It's a nice compromise, easy to draw. And… his total daily basal is… 30. The orange-capped bottle has a half life of 8 hours, which is … a fourth? no, a third of a day. He rolls the cloudy insulin between his hands, before drawing up 10 units. This is quickly followed by 15 units of the clear.
He pokes the uncapped needle around his naked stomach and hips, trying to find a sweet spot where the injection will not hurt so much. Finally, he mans up and injects himself, despite the awful pain.
He caps the syringe, and lays it on his night stand, next to the bottles.
He is so tired. Now that he's done this, he can rest.
He has no control over the sleepiness that washes over him, his glazed eyes watching the glowing 5:52 by his bed.